The Persistence of Vision
by itsavolcano
Summary: After the CBI takes down Red John, Jane disappears only to reappear in the tourist center of Salem, Massachusetts. Lisbon arrives just as a string of murders surface in the infamous and historic town. Will the reunited duo solve the seemingly straight-forward case, or is there something more sinister behind the murders?
1. The Bird and the Cage

OK. This will be a multi-chapter. I am setting out to stretch my writing muscles now that my work life has slowed down. Therefore, all typos and grammar mistakes are mine as I relearn the rules. They say it's like riding a bike... but I was never a coordinated child, to begin with. I welcome all constructive criticism!

This takes place post-Red John (spoilers up until 5x22). I own nothing but all the debt I have accrued.

**The Persistence of Vision **

_persistence of vision: (n) the retention of a visual image for a short period of time after the removal of the stimulus that produced it._

_Sacramento, California_

He was there and then he was gone. A turn of a wrist, a flash of silver in the gleam of sunlight. It was the greatest disappearing act of recent history. Teresa Lisbon hadn't seen it coming.

For all of the times she had visualized the end of his crusade, or had fallen asleep with her stomach in knots while praying to Saint Michael for his protection, she had never anticipated Jane would vanish once the demon was proven mortal.

Despite the taunting message a few months ago, they had found Red John and it had been a surprisingly easy end to a tortuous decade-long manhunt. _Until you catch me, or I catch you. _And oh, how they had _caught_ him. An officer whose name she couldn't remember—Dunham? Denholm?—had put a bullet in his left temple, instantly severing the optical nerve. It was bloody and gruesome, and Lisbon was glad. She would pray for forgiveness later; right now, she had been too relieved he was dead.

Everything had seemed so surreal from the moment they descended on the warehouse and Lisbon had felt a tingle of paranoia at the base of her brain. But instead of meeting another dead end, their intel had been good. They had managed to catch Red John by surprise; Jane had been right, Red John wasn't psychic or he'd have seen them coming. Patrick Jane was released from a decade long sentence of his own making; the man who had murdered Angela and Charlotte Jane, and so many others, was dead.

But what happened next? Where did they go from here? Lisbon had never really planned for this moment. At the end of a typical, by-the-book case Jane would tug on his vest, rock back on his heels, and demand she drive him to the nearest diner for scrambled eggs. They had never discussed what would happen once they caughtRed John. After the Timothy Carter fiasco, she had been too afraid to bring it up. She had worried the case would end with Jane behind bars or in a pine box. She had never planned on some Officer—_Denman_! His name was Denman—shooting the serial killer through the head. She had no idea what happened next, but she hoped it involved Jane finding relief. He had been quiet after Red John fell, standing over the man, careful to not tarnish evidence. She had watched his face as he committed the sight of the crumpled body to memory. No emotion had crossed his features. And then he had quietly walked away, back to where the police vans were parked.

It had been forty minutes since she saw him last. She turned to look at him, her heart full with relief and her shoulders finally relaxing after years of tension. She wanted to offer him some words of comfort but he was out of her line of vision.

Rigsby pointed towards the back of the lot while Cho just shrugged and Van Pelt frowned. Lisbon spun on her heels, searched around the lot, through the cluster of police, feds, and crime scene crew. She hit his number on her speed dial. Her stomach dropped as she remembered his last disappearing act. Something told her this time he'd disappear longer than six months. She stared up at the sun, scorching her eyes, blinking until the hot outline faded away.

This would be Patrick Jane's greatest feat. A party trick. A silver dollar flicked up a sleeve. He was gone.

xxx

_Salem, Massachusetts_

Growing up in a latchkey house, books were Catherine's favorite afternoon companion. She read everything from the Classics to ten cent paperback novels from the corner store. Her favorites were always the stories of the Regency era—she loved how the men courted women, and the refined way they dressed and behaved.—And they drank tea! Most men she knew gulped coffee sludge like water.

Perhaps it was her romantic, childish notions gathered from those Regency novels, but Catherine had always thought a man in a three-piece suit was dignified.—More dignified than this man sitting across from her in a waistcoat, clutching her hand in a sweaty grip.

"There, do you see here, my dear?" He ran his index finger along her skin, the blunt nail biting her flesh. "Your heart line is bisected by tiny little waves and lines. That tells me that you have experienced recent heartbreak.—An unfaithful lover, yes?"

"Malcolm was hardly a lover." She wanted to pull her hand back and wipe it on her jeans. He tightened his hold and his fingers flicked over her wrist. She wanted to get the hell out of the small room, with heavy burgundy drapes blocking the fading sunlight and the burning incense cloying the air.

Stopping at one of the many the quaint magic and psychic shops on the strip was meant to be a fun little extravagance, but Catherine was beginning to feel uneasy. This man was not what she expected when she thought of "psychic;" he was nothing like those people she saw on television. She was sure he had been handsome once, but his cheekbones were a bit hollow from undernourishment, and his blue-green eyes were dull and glassy.

"I think—I think I had better be on my way, Mr.—" Catherine tugged her arm back, but again he tightened his grip. She hoped he wasn't truly psychic or he'd know the terrified thoughts rolling in her brain. "Really, this has been, well, it's been _interesting_. But I have to go, there are people waiting for me just down by the harbor. You know, at that nice little fish place? I hear they have halibut today. So, I must be going—"

"You're lying," his fingers ghosted over her wrist once more. Her pulse thrummed.

"I'm not. Please let me go, I've had enough—" Catherine's felt her heart lurch and she watched in horror as the man's face split in a chilling grin.

"No, darling, you're forgetting I hold your fate in my hand. And right here is your life line. Do you see this break just as it coasts by your thumb? That break is very telling. Very telling, indeed."

"Oh?" Catherine willed her voice not to quiver. She ignored the amused little quirk of his mouth. "And what does it tell?"

"There's about to be a sudden change."

"A change in what?"

"Why in your _life_, of course." Her stomach bottomed out. Of all the psychic fronts in a three block radius, she picked the one with the certifiable whackjob—

"Do you know what else your palm tells me? It tells me you have no one to worry.—That started out young didn't it? Other kids on the block came home from school to freshly baked cookies and ice cold milk, but you came home to an empty house and a television set, am I right? Ah, see, your eyes widened a bit, _just a bit_. You've been drifting for the last few years, in and out of jobs, relationships, cities. No real direction, no real family. Would you like to know how I figured that out? You lack a fate line… right _here_…" He ran his nail down the inside of her palm, just below her ring finger. "It's alright, nothing to be ashamed of. Not everyone has a fate line."

He flattened her hand against the small round table with enough sudden force to make her jump. Catherine screamed as he pulled a knife seemingly out of thin air, and she continued to scream as he sliced into her palm.

"But don't worry, darling, we can fix that."

xxx

Patrick Jane was gulping his second cup of morning tea in a desperate attempt to ward off the splashes of red haunting his vision. Although his sleeping habits had gradually improved over the recent weeks, there were nights when bloody smiley faces filled his dreams. But worse were the streaks of red that haunted his waking hours.—A red smiley face was painted on the wall near the back door, running in fresh rivets down the cracked white paint. Jane blinked—_blinked hard_—and it disappeared. This was becoming _unsettling_. He swallowed back more of the tea when the chime on his door jangled.

"Be with you in one second!"

It wasn't the best idea to let a customer catch a psychic unaware—if he couldn't predict someone would stop by, then what else _couldn't_ he predict? But he wasn't a psychic, and with the high volume of similar shops throughout historic Salem, few people paid too close attention to such details. After all, there was a "Get Your Palm Read by Ted" sign around the corner. While Jane gave Ted props for the rhyme, it lacked a certain… _showman's pizazz_. Now _his_ sign had it all, pizazz, zing, old school charm: "The Great and Enigmatic Mentalist." He gulped down the last of his lukewarm tea and grimaced; yeah, his sign wasn't that great either but at least it offered a bit of intrigue on the fourth word in. _Enigmatic_.

But by all appearances, Ted's business seemed to be booming. Jane rolled his shoulders and schooled his features into a neutral but welcoming appearance. This would be his first client in two days; maybe there was something to Ted's direct market approach. Tugging his waistcoat down and wiping his hands on his trousers, Jane ducked out from the beaded curtain separating his office—storage space with an electric tea kettle, really—from the front room.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, I had a very important call to take. Sometimes, the spirits, they just come to me and I must answer. They're very persistent, not unlike when a telephone rings—"

"Oh, so you _are_ aware of how phones work, interesting." Lisbon sat at the small table in the far corner of the room, drumming her fingers on the plum tablecloth. "Or do these spirits use a different line? Do they call collect and you have to accept all charges?"

"Lisbon." Jane licked his lips, feeling as if all the moisture had been pulled from his body.

"You're a son of a bitch." Her green eyes flashed with anger and something else… Hurt? Relief? It had been four months since he had walked away from the final Red John crime scene, four months since he had walked away from her.

"It's lovely to see you," he stammered briefly before retreating behind a mask of decorum. "Can I get you anything? Tea? There are a couple of stale biscuits in a tin in a drawer. Left by the previous tenants, I think, but I'm sure they'll be fine with all those additives…"

"Do you know how _worried_ I've been?" Lisbon jumped up. "Once again, the great Patrick Jane disappears without any contact. What does the sign out front say? _Enigmatic_? Of course." She snorted and he grimaced. Perhaps he _should_ change his sign.

"Is that a negative on the tea?"

She stopped pacing and looked at him—scrutinized him as if he were a bug she had wriggling and sprawling on a pin. Taking a good look at her, he noticed she looked exhausted. A twinge of guilt nagged at the back of his brain.

"This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. I knew that an hour ago, hell, I knew it while I heard you on the other side of that curtain, gulping tea, muttering to yourself."

"Lisbon."

"You're alive. You're well, I assume.—Or at least well enough to resume whatever this is." She gestured around, and for the first time in the three months since he had opened shop on the small brick and mortar strip, Jane felt ashamed. As far as Lisbon knew, the moment Red John's body was packed up in a black bag Jane had returned to a life of conning gullible people out of their hard-earned cash.

"Lisbon—_Teresa_, this isn't what it looks like." She flinched when he said her name and his heart stuttered.

"No? Because it looks like you're a _psychic_."

"We both know that's not the case."

"Then what _is _going on? What aren't you telling me?" She sighed. "No, you know what? It doesn't matter, I don't care. This is your life now, that's fine. You've moved on—or _regressed_, depending on how you look at it."

"Teresa." While she had every right to be angry and confused, he was growing impatient. He wanted to explain—

"Don't call me that. You make it sound like we have something more between us, some friendship that clearly never existed." His face dropped. "Boy, I fell for it, huh? The longest con of your career."

Abruptly, she turned on her heel and disappeared out the door, once again sounding the chime above the frame.

It took him ten seconds before he was out the door after her. When he grabbed for her sleeve she reared back, and in retrospect he should have anticipated her fist landing squarely on his nose. He doubled over in surprise before tilting his head back to staunch the blood flow.

"Son of a bitch."

"I'll say!" Lisbon shook out her hand, wiggling her fingers.

"I'll never understand where you picked up such a solid right hook."

"Really? Losing your touch?"

"Ah, yes, those three younger brothers." He pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket.

"Bingo."

"Can we please take this back inside. I'd love to continue our chat, but I'm feeling woozy."

"What's the point in talking, Jane? You're happy here, I get that."

"Who said anything about being happy here?"

"Aren't you?"

"I'm not _un_happy. I'm not, you know, _over the moon_." He straightened up and immediately regretted it. Curling his body back up, he felt the earth spin. "Really, do we have to talk about my emotional state in the town square while I'm doubled over from getting socked in the nose? I haven't been punched in a few months, so it might take me a bit longer to recover."

"Wow, a few months? Things really have changed, huh?" He caught a hint of amusement in her tone.

"Hilarious, my dear, but can you lead me over to the shop? I can't hold my head back and walk a straight line."

"I'm still furious at you."

"Duly noted. I'd love to pick this conversation back up once I'm no longer seeing double. One furious Teresa Lisbon is difficult, but two—woo, boy, _no sirree."_

"Give me a break, you baby, I didn't hit you that hard. And you're making a scene, all the other shop owners are at their windows."

"Eh, busy-bodies, the whole lot."

"Still making friends, then?"

"You know me, lone wolf."

"Then why in the world—no, you know what: I'll get you in side, put a cup of tea in your hands, and ice on that big ol' snout. Then you'll tell me from the beginning what the hell is going on."

"That's easy, Lisbon. I see dead people."

"You're impossible." She gave him a shove in the direction of his shop.

"Gentle, dear Lisbon. Be _gentle_."

"Get inside before I punch you in the kidney for all the lookie-loos to see."

"Those anger management classes never really gelled, huh? –_Ow_."

xxx

Across the narrow cobble street, a hand dropped the burgundy curtain panel back in place. He had taken in the entire scene. It seemed Patrick Jane wasn't the docile mystic as he had originally anticipated. Clearly, his reading had upset the lovely raven-haired woman enough to warrant a punch.—He had made a pass at her, no doubt. She had gone looking for hope and he bamboozled her.

But that's what set the two men apart: _he_ helped people like the lost woman. There was something about the woman that seemed familiar, he felt the loneliness radiate off of her petite frame. It was disappointing she hadn't wandered into _his_ shop, he could have shown her true fate. He could have drawn it down her palm with a red pen, or with something even more permanent.


	2. Eadweard Muybridge's Galloping Horses

**Chapter Two: Eadweard Muybridge's Galloping Horses**

"As lovely as it is to see you, Lisbon, I'm rather tired of seeing _two _of you." Jane slumped down at the small table where he'd found her. He could hear her in the small room, opening drawers and slamming the box refrigerator closed. The electric tea kettle rattled as she rounded the corner. "Still upset, then?"

Without preamble, she slapped a cool packet over his face and turned away. He quickly caught it before it could fall to the floor.

"Lunchmeat?"

"If you'd prefer a steak, you're fresh out."

"I would've preferred you not slug me."

"Well, punching you wasn't my preference either, but I left my gun in the car."

He peeled the lunchmeat away from his face; there was more bluster than bite to her threat.

"Would it help if I tell you I'm sorry?"

"Is this another blanket apology.—Am I supposed to apply it to the greatest offense?"

He stood slowly, having regained most of his balance. If Jane were being completely honest, she hadn't punched him as hard as he'd led her to believe. He needed a reason to keep her from running off and appealing to her goodhearted nature always seemed to the trick.

"No, I think I'd prefer it if you applied my apology to my having ditched you."

"You didn't ditch me, you _disappeared_. It was worse. You've ditched me before, usually to follow some 'hunch' I wouldn't approve of. And you've disappeared too, but at least then I knew you were in Vegas. This time, you were completely gone."

"I had to leave, Lisbon." The air in the room felt stale. He tossed the lunchmeat down, it was making him nauseated.

"You sold your house in Malibu."

She sounded distant, as if she were wrapped up in her memories. He caught her eye before she glanced away. Electricity charged their shared space and he felt transported back to Davis, California when Lorelei Martins was creating a gulf in their partnership. Standing in that house on Orchid Lane was one of the few times Lisbon's feelings had been so raw and close to the surface she had been unable to maintain eye contact—_and he had been unable to look away_.

Of course he'd seen she cared for him over the years, catching her concern or affection in quick little moments: a soft glance, a downturned mouth, a ghosting touch. But that evening in Davis she had been so upset she couldn't keep her mask in place.

She was afraid she would lose him, and what had he done but made her fears into reality a few months later. He had _left_ before Red John's body was cold. He knew his leaving would hurt her, but the end of his ten-year manhunt had left him feeling suffocated. It was a moment of fight or flight, and he had no more fight left.

Now, in his little shop in Massachusetts, she was trying to avoid looking at him again. It didn't matter, he could read her without studying her eyes or following her body language.

"You went to the house first, drove through the night." It wasn't a question. He could see her in his mind's eye rushing from the crime scene, leaving her team to wrap up the greatest case of her career. And for what? To find him. He dropped his head. "You were frantic. I'm sorry."

"I didn't know what I'd find once I got there. You weren't answering your phone." Her voice was small and brittle. The heavy tension in the room made the emergency sirens in the distance sound so much closer.

"Did you put a BOLO out on my car?" He tried to smile, tried to lighten the mood but the hurt in her eyes only intensified.

"I sat in your driveway until morning, waiting. The realtor thought I was her first showing of the day."

The sirens grew closer and closer. Red light danced across her face and Jane felt cold panic rise up through his body.

"She was lovely over the phone. Sold the house in under a month, which considering the history was remarkable. I'm assuming I owe her success to her charming personality and efficiency." His ears rang as the blood rushed through his head, continuing the sense of panic.

Before his eyes, the red light on her skin spun and swirled, casting different shades and forming a menacing smile above her porcelain collarbone. _You see the face first and you know. You know what's happened and you feel dread. _He flinched. Why was this happening? Red John was dead, why was the demon still haunting his waking hours?

"Jane?" Lisbon gave his sleeve a sharp tug.

He focused on Lisbon's necklace and the bloody smile disappeared. The flickering light remained, pulsing in waves across her face, making her fair Irish skin look sallow. Shafts of red danced along the walls of his shop, refracting against the glass of the store fronts across the street.

"Jane? What's going on?" Her confusion and concern was clear. Her soft green eyes stood out against the contrasting colors. The emergency sirens he had heard moments before must have been closer than he thought—

"Did you hear anything a bit ago? Sirens?" Jane focused once again, his vision twisting and taking shape as if with the turn of a child's toy kaleidoscope. He tugged back the heavy curtain to look out the large window, and the bloody illusion fell away completely. He could see the situation at hand: three police cars, one ambulance, and one fire truck were parked down by the marina, their emergency lights flashing. Relief now coursed through his veins. He wasn't going crazy. _Not yet._

But something _was_ very wrong.

"Lisbon, did you hear sirens?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think anything of it. People have emergencies all the time, this _is_ a well-traveled city." She watched him carefully.

"Yes, a regular tourist center. A hotbed for the paranormal—well, for those who believe in the power of the paranormal."

"As well as a hotbed for those who believe in the power of the all mighty dollar."

"Touché, my dear." Jane gave a slight smile, his gaze still fixed on the scene by the harbor.

"What do you say we go take a closer look?"

"Nuh-huh, are you kidding me? I'm off the clock, this is my official vacation time. I don't need to go 'take a closer look' at a bunch of cop cars."

"But these are _New England_ cop cars, Lisbon." Jane waggled his eyebrows, as if that were an enticement.

"You've seen one, you've seen them all." She gave a dismissive wave. "And we still need to talk. Something's up with you and you need to spill."

"And I will, Lisbon. But this can't wait."

"What's can't wait?"

"You know the history of Salem, right?"

"The witches?"

"_Alleged_ witches. Turns out it was all a big misunderstanding. Albeit, one that led to a rather sizable uproar and several hangings—one person was _pressed_ to death as opposed to hanging, can you imagine?"

"I'd rather not, thanks."

"Anyway, Arthur Miller had it right."

"Oh? A senator from Wisconsin caused the Salem witch trials?" She replied, cheekily, pleased at his look of surprise. "I know things. You're not the only person who _knows things_."

"Ah, no, although I'm sure ol' Joe would've had he been around. No, I mean jealousy, greed, and isolation. Plus a little old fashion exhaustion and poisoned grain, I'm sure." Jane continued on, gesturing wildly with his hands, regaining his equilibrium. Storytelling was old hat for him. "The witch trials were fueled by a society built on a very public-"

"I don't need a history lesson, Jane. What does any of this have to do with the emergency crew down the road?"

"Ah, I was getting to that, Lisbon. You see, after the trials and the waves of hysteria died down, everyone repented their erroneous ways. In 1711, the charges against all those condemned were reversed—too little, too late, of course. But, by that time, the Salem area was rid of the mass hysteria that had led to the hangings—and pressing—of so-called witches."

"Skip to the end."

"There's been a spike of ritual killings in recent weeks. And it looks particularly occult."

"I'm sorry, _ritual_ killings?" Lisbon stared at him. This was a strange turn of events.

"Yes, or at least, what the perpetrator believes is ritual killing. It's really all just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, of course. Who-doo, voo-doo, really. It began with animal sacrifices but escalated to young women. Two that the authorities know of, so far."

"Again, what does this have to do with the scene down the road?"

"I believe it's victim number three."

"Could be a tourist with heat-stroke."

"Would heat-stroke require such a full detail of emergency personnel?"

"How do you know all of this?" Turning back to look at her, he noticed Lisbon looked pale once more, her brow furrowed. "Have you been… did you go…" He watched her flounder for the right words and decided to ease her mind.

"No need to worry, Lisbon. You're the only partner for me," he said with a smile.

"Then what _is_ going on?"

"C'mon let's go find out!" He bolted out the door, once again leaving her behind.

"Not what I meant _at_ _all_." Lisbon hissed through gritted teeth as she chased after him. _Again_.

xxx

A crowd of onlookers, some in colonial garb and others in tourist gear, had gathered around the taped-off perimeter. Jane leaned up on his toes and surveyed the scene. Two detectives—a red-haired woman and her bald partner—were standing over what looked to be the body of a young woman. Jane could see a navy flat dangling from her right foot while her left foot was bare. Not uncommon, but notable just the same.

"This is a body dump, not the original crime scene."

"How about you don't say that too loud? You aren't on payroll here, someone might get the wrong idea."

"What, they'll pin me for the killer? Hardly."

"What's so surprising about that?"

"For one I would never dump a body where it could be discovered so easily. That's just _sophomoric_."

A tourist in tangerine capris and orthopedic sandals gave them a shrewdly appraising look. Jane flashed the woman a smile and a bow of his head before rocking up on his toes once more. Lisbon gave a polite nod also before tugging him back down to his feet.

"I can't get you out of jail in New England, Jane."

"I've charmed my way out of some interesting situations, Lisbon. I'm sure I can handle the local LEOs."

"Just remember, a few hundred years ago they _pressed_ people to death, 'round these parts."

Ignoring her comment, Jane tapped her elbow and leaned in.

"It seems quite a few of my colleagues have hit the street, this afternoon. Scooping out the scene, no doubt—the grim bunch. Waiting to offer insight on life and death for shaken bystanders. Like Rachel and Reynard Gilles, for example." Jane watched as a few people began to break away from the scene, apparently have lost interest. The Gilles were quick to follow and Jane rolled his eyes. One bystander gestured to the investigating detective, clearly offering his services. "That's Ted. Runs a shop over by my place, specializes in palm readings."

"Oh?" Lisbon frowned, still confused by what Jane was doing fronting as a psychic again. They really needed to have an honest conversation.

"Nice guy, bit eccentric."

"An eccentric psychic, who would ever guess?" She watched Ted, a stout man with a receding hairline, dressed in a purple crushed velvet suit, as he talked animatedly to the red-haired detective.

"Sticks and stones, Lisbon."

"How _is_ your nose?"

"One more slug and I'll be able to feel oncoming changes in barometric pressure."

"Speaking of, it looks like it's about to rain."

"Unfortunate for the crime scene techs."

"Glad it's not my case."

"About that—"

"It's not my case, Jane. The _California_ Bureau of Investigation has no jurisdiction over a Massachusetts murder, whether or not said murder catches your interest."

"You aren't even _trying_, Lisbon. I'm sure you get on the case if you really wanted it." Jane needled, pleased when she let out a low growl of annoyance. She tried to grab for him as he stepped closer to the crime scene, but he was too quick. "Claudia!"

The red-haired detective spun around, a flash of a surprise flickered over her face.

"Patrick, I should've known you would find your way out here."

"Well, you _are _in my backyard." He tilted his head to the scene. "So, what can you tell me?"

"You're the psychic, what can you tell _me_?" Claudia arched a finely-drawn auburn eyebrow.

"It's a body dump. The killer probably kept her left shoe for either a souvenir or lost it in transportation."

"Wow, I just don't know what Detective Parry and I would do without input from you and Ted, over there." She rolled her eyes. Jane was vaguely annoyed but didn't let it show. "Tell me something I don't know, Patrick."

"Your victim's hands are sliced open." His manner was jovial but his tone held an edge. Judging by Claudia's quick appraising glance to his right, Lisbon was at his side. "The cuts start just around the fleshy part of the palm and run down the length of the wrists and forearms, stopping at the elbows. They begin shallow but grow deeper, angrier. Your killer is trying to make a point, he's trying to draw something out—something he believes your victim needs. You'll find similarities between this case and the two cases over in Danvers from a couple weeks ago. This killing, though, is markedly more refined."

Claudia swallowed noticeably but maintained her professional demeanor.

"Now, Detective Loy," Jane smiled smugly, "did Ted tell you all of that, too?"

"No, Patrick, he didn't." She sized him up. Jane could see he had struck a nerve. It wasn't the first time he had offered 'insight' on a case, but it was the first time Claudia had looked completely bewildered. "Perhaps you should come down to the station and tell a few of my colleagues, too?"

"Nah, authorities never really like listening to a crackpot like me."

"I'll say," Lisbon mumbled. "But that's never stopped you before."

"Ah yes! Claudia, I'd like you meet my dear friend and partner Teresa Lisbon." Jane tucked an arm around Lisbon and pulled her up closer.

"Partner? Like the psychic equivalent to a magician's assistant?" Claudia turned up her nose and Jane felt Lisbon tense against him.

"No way—"

"Yes, Detective Loy, just like that." Jane gave Lisbon an exaggerated squeeze, drawing her up to his height. "Work just hasn't been the same without her."

"Uh, ok." Claudia glanced back at Lisbon who continued to scowl.

"I believe Detective Parry is in need of your assistance," Jane pointed back to the scene where Walter Parry was standing with his hands on his hips. Jane noted the relaxed posture of the large detective, and the slight upturn of his mouth. He was a man in his element, ready to organize the technicians once the medical examiner gave the all-clear.

Claudia excused herself and headed back to her partner. Dropping his arm from around Lisbon, Jane shoved his hands into his pockets.

"So…"

"_Assistant_?"

"It's a great compliment!"

"Jane, I need answers. You need to tell me what the hell is up with all of this. How do know about those cases, about those wounds? And more importantly _why the hell_ are you in _Massachusetts_?"

"OK, Lisbon. OK. All will be revealed, all questions will be answered. But first, I'm a bit peckish and could use a spot of tea."

Lisbon turned and began to walk back to the shop, knowing she wouldn't get anything out of Jane until he had food in his stomach.

"Uh, Teresa? Where are you going? That lunchmeat was all I had back there, and by now it's probably a bit hunky-monkey. Come on, this way. You're in luck, I know a great quiet place right on the water. Fresh fish, creamy pasta. Maybe a little wine for you, tea for me..."

He motioned for her to follow, and for the third time since she had found him that morning Teresa Lisbon wondered _why_ she had spent months searching for her annoying runaway consultant.

xxx

He hadn't intended for Catherine to be found so quickly, but the unexpected discovery had sent a sharp jolt of excitement through him. The flashing lights had brought people out of their houses and shops, had drawn an audience around his masterpiece. _That's_ what she was, she and the others were his masterpieces. He had given them what they could not give themselves: he had recognized their destinies, their _fates_. He had taken their loneliness, their desolate futures, and made them immortal. Now, everyone would remember them.

He watched with eager eyes as the detectives stood, dumbfounded and perplexed by his work. Then, suddenly, the red-haired detective walked over to Patrick Jane. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but if Patrick's body language meant anything, he was definitely putting on a performance for the detective. The woman he had seen on the sidewalk earlier was now at Patrick's side, and he watched as Patrick wrapped an arm around her. He tilted his head and studied her reaction to the sudden invasion of her personal space. She appeared to curl inward, as if she wanted to break away. Her timidity was such a change from the first time he noticed her. _Then_, she had been lively, punching Patrick in the face. The other man must have hypnotized her when they went back to his shop.—Yes, that had to be it. He watched as she wordlessly followed after Patrick, her shoulders slumped in subconscious defeat.

Perhaps _he _could give set her free, perhaps he could help her escape from whatever enchantment Patrick Jane had no doubt placed on her. She _was_ beautiful and deserved to be immortal. She would no doubt make a wonderful addition to his collection.

xxx

_End of Chapter 2_

As I try to unclog my creative writing brain, I'd love to know what you think! I welcome any and all constructive feedback!


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